


The Collective

by Severina



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Community: 60_minute_fics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-23
Updated: 2008-03-23
Packaged: 2017-10-10 11:35:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/99296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Attempting to start up a successful career as an artist, in New York fucking City of all places, based on a single favourable review from a critic who was more interested in the artist's ass than the artist's easel -- it was preposterous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Collective

**Author's Note:**

> Post Season Five  
> Written for LJ's 60_Minute_Fics community, based on a photo prompt of a run-down room.

Attempting to start up a successful career as an artist, in New York fucking City of all places, based on a single favourable review from a critic who was more interested in the artist's ass than the artist's easel -- it was preposterous.

Working three jobs to make ends meet, living on EasyMac and ramen noodles, and painting so much that your hand twitches and clutches for an imaginary brush during the two or three hours of sleep you manage to get in your cold-water flat a night -- absolutely ridiculous.

And trying to maintain a long distance relationship with an emotionally stunted and exceptionally virile man during this period of madness? Simply inconceivable.

Justin was more surprised than anyone when it all worked out.

* * *

The Collective just sort of… happened.

Justin's large scale canvases in blue were beginning to get noticed (by more than just one cunty columnist who proved all of Justin's suspicions to be well founded when he made a clumsy grab for his cock at a third rate wine-testing-slash-gallery-opening) just as Chad's work in copper and aluminum carvings was being raved about by the cocktail set. Janice couldn't keep up with the demand for her mosaics.

A month didn't go by without one of them being featured in some sort of local or national magazine. And when _People_ noted that all three of the current It Artists -- their term, not Justin's, who would have come up with _something_ more original -- shared studio space, and speculated that their run-down garret was haunted by the tragic ghost of a opium-addicted watercolourist who'd lived there briefly in the '30's, they'd laughed over their pad thai and then had a revelation.

They could milk this.

They could milk it for all it was fucking worth.

They embarked on three months of multiple press junkets; grin-and-bear-it photo shoots with frothy magazines more used to discussing what Nicole and Paris were wearing this week. And if they maybe sort of _slightly_ exaggerated the "ghostly presence" and "flickering lights" in their studio, well… in the end, their work was what got noticed after the ghost story was done. And besides, they didn't have to mention that leaky steam heater and the faulty wiring in the building if the reporters didn't _ask_.

 

("I always said you were a clever devil," Brian said on one of his many visits.

"I'm merely ensuring that my art gets the recognition it deserves," Justin countered.

"So humble."

Justin grinned. He knew his ego made Brian hot.)

 

Three months after that, a record twelve banks turned down The Collective for a loan to open their own gallery. The thirteenth bank only agreed to lend them the bare minimum they required if they signed the contract in blood, consented to sacrifice their first born children at the light of the first full moon… and got a co-signer.

Brian, already in town for a series of meetings with _Levi Strauss_, managed to leave off "dazzling the denim kings" long enough to sign on the dotted line. He also presented a second contract, insisted upon by his lawyer, that entitled him to a cut of the profit of the gallery. Justin, who still hadn't even begun paying off his PIFA 'loan', simply smiled and signed. He knew Brian would never take the money, but he already planned to buy Brian something ridiculously extravagant when he came into his own. Maybe a Ferrari, since a country manor with stables and a swimming pool was definitely out.

* * *

One month after that, with anticipation for anything The Collective produced still skyrocketing with the critics and the public, Justin opened the door to what would soon be his (their) new gallery with a flourish.

"Well…" Ted started.

"It's certainly got its own sense of style," Lindsay tried.

"It's…" Ben began.

"It's a dump!"

"Michael!" Emmett admonished. "It just needs some colour! I'm thinking bamboo flooring -- that's so environmentally friendly, you know -- and… oooh, red velvet curtains blanketing that entire wall!"

"It's a gallery, not a bordello," Brian put in.

"Only until you get your hands on it," Ted said. He turned to the others. "Mark my words, this is going to be the only gallery in New York City with a back room."

Brian arched a brow. "Oh, Theodore. So naïve."

"What?" Ted frowned at Emmett. "Wait. Is there--?"

Emmett shrugged. And looked _very_ intrigued.

"Your own gallery!" Lindsay gushed for what felt like the tenth time.

"I know!" Justin gushed back. He wasn't getting tired of hearing it. Yes, he should be pointing out that the gallery was only one-third his, and that all decisions made about the place would have to go through The Collective as a whole, and he'd had to make a ton of sacrifices in what he exclusively wanted to do in order to make the whole thing work, but…

He smiled, and it lit up the room. "Can you fucking believe it?"

"I can," Brian said.

* * *

"There'll always be at least two of the three of us in residence," Justin explained as he took them on the Grand Tour. "One of us working the floor--"

"Until you can afford to hire some help," Ben pointed out.

"Right, which will be, like, ten years from now with the rent we're paying on this place," Justin said.

Brian and Lindsay exchanged a look. "And," Lindsay said, "what will the other person be doing while his partner is shilling to the masses?"

"Working," Justin said. He pointed up at a rickety second floor balcony that overhung the first floor. "Where the customers can see us."

"Iiiinteresting," Ben said.

"Hey, you're still going to have time to work on _Rage_, right?"

Ben sighed. "Michael--"

"Whaaat? I'm just saying--"

"Don't worry, Michael." Justin smiled at him, then met Brian's eyes. "I'll never give up on Rage."

Brian pressed his lips together, and didn't say a word.

 

The tour continued, and Justin pointed out the office that they planned to convert to a storage area (and didn't notice the plump furry creature with long thick tail that scurried into a hole in the wall). He waxed poetic about his plans for a series of city-inspired abstracts (and didn't notice that the skylight above his head was hanging askew and looked about to drop off any moment.) He showed them every nook and cranny (and didn't notice that the entire place smelled of cat piss and cheap wine.)

If Justin's enthusiasm was enough to count on, then The Collective Gallery was going to be a success. He just knew it.

And Brian knew it too.

He also knew a really good contractor.


End file.
